


isolette

by Lady_Bryght



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-07-23 19:38:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16165601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Bryght/pseuds/Lady_Bryght
Summary: All alone, on the edge of sleepMy old familiar friendComes and lies down next to meAnd I can see it coming from the edge of the roomSmiling in the streetlight, even with my eyes shut tightI still see it coming now





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't give me any shit about this. (:

“Hey, shhh,” a comforting voice says, and then a body is in the bed with me, wrapped around me, warm and heavy. A hand runs down my arm and I shudder, caught in the grip of this overdose, the world is thick and stilted to me but the touch of another person grounds me back to earth. My hands shake when I try to raise them to my face, ashamed I’ve let it happen again. Again. Again. And again.

The first time, 42.

The second time, 29.

The third time, 38.

One memorable time, 54. That was a bad day. I thought things would change then, when I found myself on the ground with paramedics staring at me, their eyes full of pity, judgment, and a firm kindness that haunts me to this day. The female paramedic’s voice isn’t something I can forget, her words clear and bright, cutting through my fog.

Nothing changed. We go on, in denial, pretending this isn’t happening.

My eyesight is getting worse. I’m forgetting things. Days after an overdose I’m still dizzy and tripping over thin air, palms scraped and bloody. Red is my favorite color.

Air, oxygen, I can’t get enough of it into my lungs. My breathing speeds and the hands reach over to press against my chest, above my breasts, reminding my body where the oxygen is supposed to go and warming my heart as well.

“Shh, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, you’ll be okay. It’s okay. Hey, everything’s fine. Just breathe. You’ve got this. Shh.” Senseless words but they mean so much. A shaky sob escapes me. Sometimes kindness hurts too. “I’m here. I’ll always be here. It’s okay.”

This wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I was supposed to be better than them, supposed to rise above my DNA. Amazing how someone who hates themself so much can still be so conceited.

 _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,_ says the voice in my head.

“It’s okay, I’m here, it’s okay,” says the voice behind me, the one that is always there when things get bad. My comfort, my savior. I never turn to face it, don’t dare to.

This disease has been inside me forever, perhaps it was foolish to think I could ever escape. My small childhood hands wielded nail clippers the same way my adult hands hold a razor. The tools change but the intent never does. Destroy what destroys you, so the saying goes, so I am eternally in the paradox of destroying myself.

 _I burned my hand taking food out of the microwave,_ my young voice said to the Sunday school teacher, fists clenched around the finger pads stripped of skin.

 _The kittens scratched me_ , my teenage voice said to a teacher, rows of cuts on accidental display. Forgot the damn hoodie that day. Learned to avoid the arms; too hard to hide.

My adult voice stays silent. No one questions an adult.

Now I’m laying, breathing heavily through the pills that have percolated into my bloodstream, trying to remember what the magic number was this time. 23? Did I add another handful after that?

Such a coward, to continue like this. The hands on my chest trace the number _100_ above my left collarbone. The same place the doctor touched two years ago and said further tests would be needed.

100\. _100._ Yes, I’m aware, thank you. 100 is neat and tidy and certainly effective. 100 would put a period onto the end of this life’s sentence. 23-and-maybe-another-handful, that’s just another semicolon. There have been too many damn semicolons. It’s a run-on sentence that no one wants to read.

Stupid. Lazy. Fat. Ugly. I’ve written these words into my thighs already, not that I needed the reminder. The last two are embarrassing because only amateurs still worry about physicality when the mind is what matters.

I should wait for those to fade before I get to the 100. I want the coroner to think better of me.

Now I’m calm, held tight by the body behind me and entering the stupor that is the best part of an overdose. The crucial thing now is to not move an inch, lest the spell be broken. My muddled thoughts trace the patterns of my life again.

The first time she came to me, I was terrified. Even as I fell into her embrace, soaked in the affection, I feared discovery. The fear lessened over time, as people stumbled over the truth and chose to ignore it. _Ah, it’s like that_ , I realized. And it stung. Pushed me further into her arms. When the yelling from the living room got too loud, she came to sit beside me and held my hand. Said I could leave with her at any time. Made the offer again when _I love you_ turned into _I love her_. I told her no each time, wanting to say yes but still hoping things might change.

When womb and arms stayed empty, she stroked my hair as I rested in her lap for weeks, months. Years.

Still said no.

Still had hope.

Even now, though hope is a dead, faded thing, as dead as Sam, still I say no.

“Come with me,” she says. I think of that day in October, the screams, the body, the yellow tape. “It’s time now. Come with me.” I want to, I do. I’ve always wanted to.

I don’t deserve to have anything I want.

“They’ll care, finally, if you come.” Her words are honey sweet. She could just carry me away. 23-and-maybe-another-handful isn't a _yes_ , but on top of all the other times, it's certainly a _maybe_ . Possibly a _dealer’s choice, up to you_.

The cat is curled up against my stomach, purring, unaware. The cat is frightfully spoiled, and beset with eccentricities. Who would love the cat if I went away?

“I just want to take care of you.” Her breath is hot in my ears. Every time she leaves without me, I think it’s the last time. She’ll be done with me and I’ll have to face the world without her help.

I don’t respond, and sleep comes over me. She stands on the edges of my dreams. When I wake up, she’s gone, but her perfume lingers.

I stand. Wobble. Walk away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I wasn't done.

Isolette shows up halfway through my night out drinking with friends and I'm irritated with her because  _ they're _ going to be irritated with  _ me. _

“They already were,” she says, gripping my hand. I grudgingly agree. “Once you're alone again, you should come with me."

I make a noncommittal noise. We both know it doesn't count even if I say yes now. I've said yes a thousand times while in a crowd then backed out once we're back at home. Yet she's still here, trying. That's how I know she's my one true friend.

* * *

“What's the longest we've gone without seeing each other?” I ask, my head in her lap. She's braiding a lock of my hair.

“Hmm. Last spring, I think. When you were traveling with that company.”

“Those were hard days,” I muse.

“But you did remarkably well.” She traces one of my eyebrows with her thumb. “You didn't need me at all.”

I snort. “Couldn't last.”

“Maybe someday…”

But we know it's unlikely, would take a miracle. I don't even know if I would want that. It's always been the strangest of relationships, a push and pull. Stay? Or go?

I could choose to leave with her, leave my sepia-toned life behind and relax with her in the darkness. Or, there's a minuscule chance I could find some kind of cure for my ailing mind, could paint my world in vivid color.

For now it's just a tightrope walk between the two.

* * *

_ “We found Samuel deceased.” _

 

I'm distantly aware of a high pitched wail in my head.

I'm not thinking about this.

 

_ “We found Samuel deceased.” _

 

I'm not thinking about this!

 

_ “-deceased.” _

 

Isolette!

 

_ The phone is on the ground. _

_ The call is still going. _

_ The phone case has shattered. _

_ The phone is on the ground. _

_ The call is still going. _

_ The phone case has shattered. _

_ The phone is on the ground. _

 

Isolette! Where are you?

 

_ Should I pick it up? _

_ Did I? _

_ I don't remember. _

 

I'm not thinking about this.

 

_ I don't have shoes on. _

_ When did those drink coasters fall? _

 

Oh God, it's coming again.

 

_ “We found Samuel deceased.” _

_ Screaming. _

 

I am thinking about this and I can't stop.

 

_ “-deceased.” _

_ Screaming. _

_ On the ground. _

_ Catch her. _

 

I am alone. Where is Isolette?

 

_ Selfish. _

_ Made it about you. _

_ Attention whore. _

_ He was a drug addict. _

_ You prayed to demons. _

_ Selfish. _

_ Selfish. _

_ Trailer home. _

_ Should have known. _

 

“Hey, I'm here, I'm here.” She's holding me and my hands scrabble at her back, nonsense coming out of my mouth as I cry. “I'm here, shh. It's okay. Do you want to go?” But I'm sucked under again and she flickers out of existence.

 

_ What is that? _

_ His fiancee is laying in the neighbor's driveway where she fainted. _

_ A puddle runs downstream from her pants. _

_ Oh. _

 

Isolette doesn't come back. This one is too big for her, too deep, too strong. I am clutched in its grip and the loop starts again.

 

_ We found Samuel deceased. _


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes

she gets angry.

 

Sometimes

she isn’t my friend.

 

Sometimes she gets right up in my face and tells me all the true things about myself, the things she knows, the things she’s seen. “Remember the bleach incident?” she’ll say. Or, “That time you yelled at Mel? Remember that? She was just a kid.” She’ll reach into me and spread apart my rib cage to expose my black heart. She’ll poke it with one sharpened nail. She’ll tell me how they must have caught a glimpse of it, all the ones that left. She’ll leave it exposed as she rakes her hands through my hair, grips my scalp, and rips it open. She’ll pluck out all the evil thoughts and let them roll around in her palm before holding them before my eyes. “ _Look._ Look at these. They. Are. You.”

 

I’ll nod slowly, vomit in my throat. Most days, I can forget. I can pretend. I can smile with my thin lips, pushing the fat in my face into folds. I can convince the world that I’m nothing worse than just another plain girl, but a nice one. Have to be nice so everyone will forgive me for being so goddamn _ugly_.

 

Sometimes

she is absolutely silent.

 

There is nothing new to say. I've heard it all before.

 

Sometimes I don't know how I'm going to resist another night. Another overdose. Another set of bloody lines. Another session with another bland face that takes all I give and never gives anything back.

 

I don't know how to go on.

 

I have to come up with new ways to survive.

 

How do I go on when I hate it all so much? Hate every part of the body I live in? Not just the physical, either. _Every_ part.

 

I don't know what the purpose is in continuing. Dragging myself through endless days, constantly under attack from the voice in my head. Every criticism from my family is another lead weight tied to me.

 

If I give up, they'll be so _sad_.

 

Sometimes

I don't care.


End file.
